


Without Words

by natsubaki



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Bittersweet, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Memory Loss, Quiet Sex, Reunions, TKG Secret Santa, Tokyo Ghoul: re
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2848898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natsubaki/pseuds/natsubaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsukiyama still brings Kaneki flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [dueliste](http://dueliste.tumblr.com) for the [Tokyo Ghoul Secret Santa exchange](http://tkgsecretsanta.tumblr.com) on tumblr~

“I’ve been wondering how all those flowers got here.”

Tsukiyama goes entirely still, as though stopping in the middle of the act would deny his presence and the evidence his hands still held. Kaneki—he was certain this man was Kaneki—wasn’t supposed to be here. Tsukiyama loosens his grip around the bouquet, resting it upon an empty space on the desk before straightening up and turning towards the other man.

“Then the mystery is solved, _mon cher_ —you’ve caught me red-handed.” He couldn’t help the tiny smirk that played at the edge of his lips. Tsukiyama knows he should feel threatened, should make for an escape while he still stands a chance, but as the room fills with that nostalgic scent, he finds himself locked in place.

Kaneki leans back against the door, shutting it with a soft click. The snap of a turning lock follows. When the other looks up, Tsukiyama is assaulted by the same gray gaze that he’d known better than his own appearance. “You know, at first I thought it was maybe my subordinates playing a prank on me, but none of them would take the credit,” he says as he takes a step forward, shrugging off his white overcoat. Kaneki hangs the coat in his wardrobe, brushing by Tsukiyama with such an ease—as though an intruder weren’t standing there with him in his personal living quarters.

Yes, this scent is still the same. The earthiness of a human, the tang of a ghoul, enhanced by a subtle warmth and purity that Tsukiyama had never experienced. A memory that Tsukiyama had believed disappeared with the grave.

There is no mistaking it now.

He feels lightheaded as a quick gust of the fragrance blows in his face as Kaneki shuts the wardrobe door, and Tsukiyama carefully leans against the desk for support.

Tugging at his tie, Kaneki slips the thin white fabric from around his neck and tosses it over his desk chair, pulling off his glasses and letting them fall to the desktop with a clatter. He rolls his shoulders, arcing an arm around to work the joint, a picture of tiredness and an overworked spirit. He passes by Tsukiyama again, dropping onto his bed unceremoniously with a sigh.

“Well, you’re here, and I’m here, so why don’t you do it properly this time?” Kaneki says, extending an upturned palm with an expectant look.

Clearing his throat, Tsukiyama slowly regains control of his body. He reaches for the bouquet, embarrassment creeping up his spine as he takes the six steps from the desk to the bed. As he presents it to Kaneki, Tsukiyama feels a knee start to give out, and he tightens the muscles in his calf and thigh to stay upright.

In the past, he would have easily knelt.

Those days were long gone.

Kaneki accepts the offered cluster of flowers, cradling them carefully against his lap. His silence is unnerving. But at least with his head bowed, it allows Tsukiyama to really inspect the man before him.

All other times, Tsukiyama had viewed him behind scraps of developed film, in short glimpses while Tsukiyama had waited for him to leave the complex, always from a distance. Now that he is up close—close enough to touch, if he were to risk it—Tsukiyama wouldn’t dare let this opportunity pass.

The sunset leaking through the edges of the window blinds colors the room in stripes of fiery orange, bouncing off Kaneki’s layer of white hair and pale skin. A patch of black growth had come in from the center of Kaneki’s head, as though his body were trying to forget its past trauma. Rewrite history.

Kaneki’s body is still thin and lithe, just a touch taller and broader, perhaps a bit more developed, but still petite compared to Tsukiyama’s own frame. No doubt still lethal.

His clothes are modest yet forgettable, as though designed to allow him to blend into the background, an unnoticed figure to offset the unusual hair. But they fit Kaneki well, close enough to allow a range of movement necessary for a ghoul investigator while still appearing professional.

Somehow Kaneki has lost the black nails, his hands returning to their appearance before Aogiri.

He looks good. It pains Tsukiyama to admit that.

But he also couldn’t dismiss the noticeable bags underneath Kaneki’s eyes, the way tiny creases converge along the corners of his eyes near his bridge. Two faint lines cut between Kaneki’s brows offensively.

Tsukiyama feels his chest constrict. The back of his neck prickles.

“Camellias again, huh?” Kaneki breaks Tsukiyama’s trance. “These are different from the ones you left before, though. Another color.”

“Ah,” Tsukiyama agrees, finding his voice, “It would be boring to repeat a gift over and over. Inconsiderate, even.”

“It confused me at first,” Kaneki says, absently kneading a petal between thumb and finger, “Usually people will leave the same thing as a sort of calling card. But each time it changed, so it almost felt like the person was trying to talk with me.” His eyes flash up, gray catching fire by the dying sun.

A smile comes to Tsukiyama’s face of its own accord. His Kaneki-kun is so smart. “I can’t deny that.”

Nodding, Kaneki’s gaze returns to the flowers. “White camellias. I’m sure all of these flowers must have cost you quite an amount.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Thank you.”

The words are spoken so softly that Tsukiyama is almost convinced that he had merely heard things. But Kaneki looks up then, a soft smile to match his tone, and Tsukiyama’s chest constricts once again.

Emboldened, Tsukiyama waves off the discomfort. “So may I ask how you were able to catch me?” he asks, his own smile reflecting Kaneki’s, “I’ll let you know that I took great measures to remain hidden.”

Months of observing Kaneki and the other occupants’ schedules. Tracking their movements within the city and establishing patterns of behavior. Several near-misses in the beginning. At times, Tsukiyama just wanted to give up or unveil himself by waiting for Kaneki to return home.

“I have a pretty good nose,” Kaneki chuckles, the finger pointing at the center of his face sliding down to scratch his chin. “I could tell by the scent of the flowers—it was easy to pin-point a likely window of time based on how faint or fresh they smelled.”

“How careless of me,” Tsukiyama tsks. The Kaneki he remembers didn’t have such a strong sense of smell.

Kaneki leans back on the bed on the heels of his palms. He stares at Tsukiyama openly, causing Tsukiyama’s skin to itch beneath the edges of his clothing. “You’re...a ghoul, right?”

Tsukiyama’s mouth falls open. He knows it would be pointless to hide it, but if this Kaneki couldn’t remember his true nature...well, it wasn’t something Tsukiyama would have volunteered. This Kaneki works for the CCG, after all.

There is no use in lying. Long ago, Tsukiyama had promised himself that if beyond all probability that Kaneki had indeed survived, he would only speak in truths.

“Guilty, once again,” he admits, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Tipping his head back, Kaneki laughs. It is a sound Tsukiyama hadn’t heard in a very long time, and never once because of him. “You don’t have to be so worried; I’m one, too.” He points at his left eye, the iris turning red as the sclera clouds black, like ink dropped into a basin of water.

“See?” Just as quickly as it had turned, Kaneki’s eye clears to its normal gray again. “It’s just that if you were human, you never would have gotten by the Quinx. Humans have distinct smells, so it’s easier for them to tell them apart. Their noses aren’t as keen on differentiating other ghouls, though. Especially with me living here, you’re lucky that your scent was masked pretty well.”

“I’ve never held much stock in luck,” Tsukiyama remarks. He couldn’t help but begin to feel a little troubled. This conversation has been going on for too long. After the...incident, Kaneki had closed in on himself, limiting his words. He was always guarded, three steps ahead, at once torn between desperately grasping onto the past and racing blindly towards the future. The days that his Kaneki would converse uninhibitedly had vanished along with the black of Kaneki’s hair.

This is too easy.

“ _Falling upon the earth, pure water spills from the cup of the camellia_ ,” Kaneki recites, offering a stem to Tsukiyama.

Tsukiyama accepts the flower, the tips of their fingers brushing in exchange. “Bashou,” he supplies, to which Kaneki nods.

“They say he wrote that poem as a lament for a lost friend,” Kaneki says, idly twirling another stem between his fingers. He pokes at its long yellow stamen, a spot of pollen coloring the edge of his nail. He brings the flower to his nose and breathes in, gazing up at Tsukiyama through heavy bangs. “Tell me, Mr. Ghoul, were these meant for someone you lost?”

He can’t find the words. He’d let his own guard down too much—how could he have forgotten that Kaneki would eviscerate just as easily with words as with his kagune?

Kaneki closes his eyes, breathes in again. When he speaks, his voice is gentle. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me. But I don’t know the person you think me to be. I go by ‘Sasaki Haise’ now.”

The words feel like the slamming of a door. It was like the ground had opened under Tsukiyama’s feet, and he was reeling, falling away from the earth, into the abyss where all his feelings would go to wither and die. If the entity he knew as Kaneki was no longer, then where was the meaning in all these past years? His time in Kaneki’s servitude, the three years of waiting and hoping, abandoning his own personal aesthetic for something he deemed greater.

He wonders what kind of expression he must have been making, because the one Sasaki gives him could only be described as pity. His eyes look upon Tsukiyama so gently that it only affirms Sasaki’s declaration.

This person is not his Kaneki.

“Trade places with me,” Sasaki commands, “and hold these.” It is said in such a way that Tsukiyama cannot disobey.

Hesitantly moving over, Tsukiyama keeps his watch on Sasaki the entire time, not entirely certain what he’s playing into. But the other is smiling, an attempt at reassurance, yet Tsukiyama knows that smiles can be deceiving. He’s used this very same tactic in the past.

The bed dips under his weight, surprisingly springy. Sasaki isn’t an imposing figure by any means, but he looms over Tsukiyama, and Tsukiyama wishes he could be anyplace other than here.

This had been a mistake.

Sasaki stares down at him, and Tsukiyama feels like a bug ready to be crushed. He flinches away from the raised hand, just centimeters from his face. “You don’t have to fear me,” Sasaki whispers, his fingertips lightly tracing the top of Tsukiyama’s head. “I just want to look at you. If you knew me in the past, then maybe something about you will trigger a memory.”

A warm palm cups his cheek, thumb trailing down from the corner of his eye. The pad of Sasaki’s thumb is smooth, unlike the calloused hands of the ghoul formerly called Centipede. It takes everything in him to resist leaning into the touch.

“You really are quite good-looking,” Sasaki murmurs as he stares into Tsukiyama’s eyes, making Tsukiyama feel all the more self-conscious. An amused grin cuts across Sasaki’s mouth. “I’d bet you could even be a model, if you already aren’t. That is, if you gave up your strange habit of breaking and entering,” he chuckles. His hands drag down Tsukiyama’s neck, and Tsukiyama swallows involuntarily. He can feel the thrumming in his veins as his heartbeat accelerates, and Tsukiyama wonders if Sasaki can notice. If he does, he makes no indication.

Although there is the barrier of cloth shielding Sasaki’s touch, it ignites something in Tsukiyama that his blood might as well have been boiling.

Gliding down Tsukiyama’s arms, Sasaki pauses at Tsukiyama’s wrists, then takes both of Tsukiyama’s hands in his, turning them palm-up. Inspecting. Searching. Tsukiyama doesn’t know what he was searching for.

Tsukiyama is still staring at his own palms when he feels one finger underneath his chin, tipping his face up. Another hand slides to the back of Tsukiyama’s head, trapping him, and the only thing Tsukiyama can see is Sasaki.

When Sasaki leans down to pull Tsukiyama upward for a kiss, Tsukiyama is hit by a return to the past so immediate and violent that it pulls the air clear from his lungs, a sucker-punch to the gut. He insists that the sharp stinging under his eyes is merely his kakugan fighting to emerge.

Tsukiyama can feel Sasaki suck in a tight breath. The other has stilled, although their mouths are still pressed together. Sasaki’s deep exhalations puff against Tsukiyama’s cheekbones, warm and damp.

When Sasaki pulls away, there’s an indiscernible expression on his face as he licks his lips. His face is flushed, and although Tsukiyama wants to believe that what Sasaki is feeling is desire, the other’s eyebrows draw down together. He bites the corner of his lips.

“Why should I want to remember?” Sasaki asks, looking directly at Tsukiyama in near accusation. “I have a life here. A fresh start. To be in this position in the first place, my life before must have been pretty awful.”

Tsukiyama has no words. His mouth opens and closes. He grinds his teeth.

He just _wants_.

“Who were you to me?”

Tsukiyama doesn’t know if he can answer that question. Knowing that imploring for understanding from someone who doesn’t possess the capability _to_ understand would be a fruitless venture, Tsukiyama decides to skirt the inquiry, however slightly.

“My best friend,” he replies and knows it to be true. Kaneki had been the only one who had known the true him, had accepted his flaws and peculiarities. He may not have trusted Tsukiyama, but it had been far more than any other person had ever given him.

Kaneki had been special. Still was special. He was unlike anyone else Tsukiyama had ever met. It went beyond wanting to eat him, although the hunger that possessed him whenever Kaneki was near—to tear into his yielding flesh, to lap up the pooling blood, to feel the heat within his stomach as Kaneki nourished him, became part of him—was incontrovertible. But for as long as Tsukiyama could remember, genuinely connecting with anyone had been nigh impossible. The Tsukiyama name was a gift as much as it was a curse: fellow ghouls kept their distance, not even bothering with trying to get to know him first, beyond the name. So why should he?

Only Kamishiro Rize had been different. Although they’d clashed over their methods and ideologies, they had bonded over their shared love of literature. Two opposing outliers, shunned from their natural world for simply embracing who they were, building a shaky yet undeniable camaraderie.

His answer seems sufficient for Sasaki, who nods once and reaches out again, this time tracing his thumb along Tsukiyama’s bottom lip. “I can’t say that I don’t feel anything. There are things that are familiar about you,” his thumb presses harder, threatening to push into Tsukiyama’s mouth, “so it makes me wonder what else about you would feel familiar.” His eyes are hazy with hunger, and Tsukiyama at once freezes and burns with the realization that he has become the prey.

Flowers scatter on the bed as Sasaki flicks them out of Tsukiyama’s grasp, white and green and yellow painting the muted bedspread in abstract. Tsukiyama feels himself falling backward, his left shoulder alarmingly close to dislocated from Sasaki’s harsh shove. Sasaki is above him, over him, pinning him down. Every muscle in Tsukiyama’s body aches to submit, to fulfill Kaneki’s every desire.

His tie is roughly tugged down, the buttons of his shirt dislodged as they pop open. Kaneki mouths wetly along Tsukiyama’s neck, hands ghost over his chest, and Tsukiyama shivers as his body responds. Kaneki is pushing against him, his own body already needy, and the smell of him and the light fragrance from the wreckage of flowers haloed around him—soil and sweetness, and a high note of something vaguely astringent—makes Tsukiyama see double as his mind swims.

He feels paralyzed by nostalgia and only notices that he’s just been lying there when Kaneki gives him a small bite on his collarbone—not enough to break the skin, but enough to disrupt his attention. Absently, he finds his own limbs, pushes movement into them. Discards Kaneki’s dress shirt and undoes the buckle and zipper to his pants, sliding a hand in.

Tsukiyama lifts his hips and brings his knees in, assisting Kaneki to remove his slacks and underwear. Kaneki hooks his fingers in as they trail down his legs, taking his socks with them. It’s a little embarrassing to be naked only from the waist down—their pace is animalistic, frenzied—but in this moment, Tsukiyama foregoes his shame and apprehension, because it’s _Kaneki_.

A hand closes around his cock, and the contact sets his nerves into overdrive, the network beneath his skin singing with electricity. Tsukiyama remembers to move his own hand. Kaneki is already panting hard, sweat beading across his forehead. The band of Kaneki’s underwear is distracting, inhibiting, so Tsukiyama squirms to gain some purchase against the other man, enough to tug it down enough to free his erection.

Things start to pick up from there. Kaneki grinds against him, and his hips jump of their own volition. Kaneki is planting messy kisses all over Tsukiyama’s face, swiping his tongue up Tsukiyama’s neck, and it’s hard for Tsukiyama to keep his own lips working fast enough to match. He feels overheated, his blood coursing too fast. He wonders if his lightheadedness is caused by Kaneki’s physical onslaught or from the mere fact that _this is actually happening_.

Tsukiyama is so lost in the sensations that the separation is like a bucket of ice water.

“Ah, sorry,” Sasaki gasps as he pulls away for the second time, unable to look at Tsukiyama. “I don’t...have anything.” His cheeks are alight—Tsukiyama can imagine the capillaries underneath surging with hot blood, and the veins at the edges of his eyes twitch.

The concern is touching. The Kaneki of old rarely was so thoughtful. Not like Tsukiyama had ever given him much reason to be. That part of the white-haired Kaneki had been thrilling; it had been like willingly putting one’s head in a bear trap and waiting for the jaws to snap shut at the slightest movement. But the _dolce_ black-haired Kaneki had had his own appeal: kindness and naivete, an empathy that led him to trouble.

This Kaneki...Sasaki...is somehow a merging of the two. Outwardly, he’s that same courteous and generous person, but Tsukiyama could detect a darkness lurking inside, hovering just below the surface—waiting.

It makes him painfully hard. His mouth salivates.

A laugh of pure joy escapes him, but Sasaki’s eyes constrict as he recoils into himself. “ _Non_ ,” Tsukiyama breathes, pulling Sasaki back to him, holding the sides of his face with both hands, “don’t misunderstand, _mon amour_. You needn’t have concern for me. Just do as you please.” He brings Sasaki’s hand down between them. It’s crude, but it would have to do.

Sasaki doesn’t look wholly convinced, but his eyes have already dilated, his left eye giving in to its ghoul nature. Tsukiyama relaxes back onto the bed and allows his to follow suit.

Slicking his hand with what has already begun to drip from the two of them, Sasaki waits as Tsukiyama spreads his legs wider. He leans over Tsukiyama, eyes locked as his fingers press in. It stings, but it’s not unbearable. Tsukiyama breathes slowly through his nose, rides out the discomfort, knowing it will ebb away soon.

Wrapping his arms around Sasaki’s shoulders, Tsukiyama waits. After Sasaki finishes, a hand finds its way underneath one of Tsukiyama’s knees, pushing and stretching him further. With a shuddering breath, Sasaki presses inside.

They feel like fumbling teenagers, too eager, too frantic. Sasaki’s hips roll into Tsukiyama relentlessly, fingers digging into his sides. He’s sure he’ll have bruises after. It’s overwhelming and a little bittersweet: it feels as though this one occurrence is a singularity, fated to never happen again. The weight in his chest is enough to suffocate. This time, Tsukiyama cannot deny the pain in his eyes, and two thin streams of tears slide hot down his face. Lips meet their tracks, tasting. Sasaki slows, thrusts into him more deliberately. Hands tangle into his hair, find their way to his own hands.

The tenderness makes him want to cry harder.

A hand escapes to enclose him again, lazily stroking. Sasaki builds the momentum between their bodies, his breath ragged and sweltering against Tsukiyama’s ear. Tsukiyama’s free hand slides around Sasaki to rest above the base of his spine, right where his kakuhou would be. It may have only been his imagination, but the muscles underneath feel like they’re rippling. He squeezes.

Sasaki’s breath hitches, and Tsukiyama can tell he’s close. He grips his hold tighter, grasps the hand in his to the point where it would have crushed human bones. When he comes, his vision white and his senses full of Kaneki, the only thought in his head is, “ _Remember_.”

When he resurfaces, Sasaki is holding him, fingers gently threading through his hair. Tsukiyama shifts to return the embrace, looks up to Sasaki uncertainly. He’s smiling, and it looks natural upon his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Tsukiyama opens his mouth to object—to what, he doesn’t know—but Sasaki cuts him off. “I didn’t...recall much. There were flashes of what could have been memories, but not enough to piece anything together.” He goes silent, the small smile wavering before returning, “I know you were probably hoping for more, but I want you to know that that was the most comfortable I can ever remember being.”

The way Sasaki caresses him is almost cruel. Tsukiyama knows he should leave, knows it would be more painful to stay any longer. He starts to extract himself from Sasaki’s arms, but he’s brought careening back onto the bed against him. Sasaki holds onto him tighter, in a gentle, possessive way that makes Tsukiyama’s heart break.

“Don’t go,” he starts and then seems to get flustered with himself. He turns his head away to stare out toward the window, where the orange has faded into a pink-tinged pale yellow. “The Quinx are all at headquarters today for testings, and I actually took the day off to work on my own little investigation, so to say. Although I guess I’m not doing so well, since I don’t even know your name.” A low rumble travels up Sasaki’s ribs. “Don’t tell me; I’d like to remember it on my own.”

A question hangs in the air between them. Tsukiyama rests his head against Sasaki’s chest, closes his eyes, and inhales.

“Could I...make you a cup of coffee?”


End file.
